Bad Education
by Kronoskingofthemonkeypeople
Summary: In the run up to the election, Malcolm Tucker is doing all he can to drag the party to the finish line - that is until a bright young teacher from Coal Hill manages to screw everything up. Malcolm x Clara
1. Chapter I

**Bad Education – Chapter I**

Coal fucking Hill.

Malcolm gave a curt sniff and untucked his blackberry from the pile of folders under his arm, as his thumb fell into muscle memory and tapped away at the keys. He could hear the Prime Minister's voice waft through the pack of press huddled in the schoolyard as he trumped up his policy to the cameras. Malcolm let out a sigh: three weeks till the election and yet here they were playing happy hand holding hour with cerebrally challenged secretaries of Education and DoSAC. That's what happens when one insists on a _'positive campaign'_. But at least it would provide enough light for him to work on slitting people's throats in the shadows.

"53!" A hushed squeaky voice appeared beside him, which he didn't have to look up from his phone to immediately identify as belonging to DoSAC scrotum buffer Ollie Reeder. "Two party preferred at 50-fucking-3 precent! We're fucking Rocky Balboa!"

"Oi." Malcolm shot up from his phone with a stern glare. "Watch your language, there's kids around."

Ollie promptly shut his mouth in surprise then stood awkwardly beside him as they both watched the crowd of press and school children as now the Secretary for Education took to the podium and quickly fell in line with kissing the PM's arse.

"Check out Nicola." Ollie interrupted again with a nod to where Nicola Murray stood in front of a gaggle of teachers and parents that had been wrangled for background fillers, enthusiastically nodding to points made by the Secretary of Education. "She looks like some sad old neglected pound dog just gagging for a scrap of attention. _P…please Mr PM!_" Ollie's face scrunched up as he mocked with a high-pitched voice. "_Just one little pat? I've been ever so good!_"

Malcolm raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "I'm sorry, are you trying to have some friendly tête-à-tête with me?"

"I was just… commentating." Ollie shrunk.

Malcolm leant in to him with a hushed voice. "Yeah well how about you tête-à-take that commentary, write it down in your little fairy dust diary and shove it so far up your glory hole it reaches your sad excuse of a brain, which it should never have left in the first place? I'm trying to watch. Make sure your boss doesn't do anything to muck up that 53% your wee peen was getting a rise out of five seconds ago."

"You do know we're the ones who actually organised this press conference to begin with." Ollie countered petulantly.

"Well _excuse me_ for giving your homoeopathically weak tea of a Secretary a shot of credibility by bringing the real stars to shine a little light on her, here in whatever ASBO breeding ground you've managed to uncover. Who even decided hold it here anyway?"

"Um… Nicola." Ollie quickly avoided. "Something about forming diamonds."

"Great." Malcolm growled. "Go and get the cars ready then, so I can shut this down and herd her away before she starts stuttering out ten pages of special-ed level metaphors."

Ollie opened his mouth in objection, but Malcolm gave an aggressive flick of his hand so quickly shut it and hurried away through the schoolyard. Malcolm checked his watch with a glower then looked back up to the podium when Nicola Murray started to edge awkwardly towards the mic and took her place under the media spot-light.

His face froze.

"Oh _f_…flay me."

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Clara tried desperately to hold back a roll of her eyes as she stood behind the row of politicians spouting bullshit about education reform. _It'll be a lark_, Danny tried to convince her when they were asked by some advisor to stand in the background for the cameras, _when else are you going to be two feet away from the PM?_

She should really stop listening to Danny. He was a sweet guy, who had a cute little crush on her, but the way he was standing next to her in regimental at-ease just made her even more agitated. She didn't want to be used as some set dressing of support for a policy she despised, but there she was anyway. All that was left for her to do is keep a blank face and pray the conference ended quickly. Very quickly.

The schoolyard filled with the snap of photographs as one politician stopped speaking and let the last one finally have a go.

"H…hello." Clara winced as the woman's voice punched from the speakers while she tried to figure out the correct distance to the microphone. "Yes… hi. Hello. Um. I would like to join my esteemed colleague and, of course, our _most_ _esteemed_ Prime Minister to say thank you. Thank you to Coal Hill for having us here and for showing you out there, the press and the public, just…um… what wonderful work is happening here in this school… and in our government – where you can truly see the fantastic results. Here. In this school."

Clara bit down a grown of utter frustration. The woman obviously had no clue what she was talking about she almost felt like covering her eyes in second hand embarrassment.

"Since the implementation of DoSAC's Stronger Citizenship Awareness in Adolescents, or SCAA as some of the _cool kids _like to call it…" Clara grimaced but the minister continued on anyway. "And then from our policy's folding in with our party's revolutionary education reform of standardization and oversight, schools just like this one here have flourished and stepped up to the challenge to deserve real budgetary rewards which um… which is why Coal Hill Secondary School truly is an example of all the good our government has done throughout the schools of Britain. Because everyone knows with a bit of pressure and time, a boring lump of _coal_ will turn into a _diamond_."

The audience was silent.

"I mean um… that's not to say that this school was 'boring', it's clearly fantastic, but, you know, nothing is truly perfect and so you've just got to keep on striving – don't you? So with more pressure from this government we know we can get results. I mean to say, not stifling pressure… but… um… just the right amount. Like the bears. I mean the porridge. The- um… but don't ask me for proof of results, you only have to look around you…" The minister turned to wave a hand before the row of teachers. "… to talk to the people on the ground, the real, hard working implementers, to see the change." Suddenly the minister's eyes fixed on to Clara's. "Have you not noticed the change?"

The world shifted to half speed as Clara could feel the eyes and lenses of the crowd of press slowly turned towards her. She'd laid her out as a sacrifice, the slimy politician.

"I have." Clara let out stiffly; trying to hold back the torrent she had felt rise up inside her throughout all the speeches. She had to keep it down. She would loose all control if it got out. But when the minister gave a small smile and turned back to the podium she knew it was too late. They weren't getting out that easily. "It's changed for the worse."

The woman whipped back round and opened her mouth cover her but Clara was too fast. "Ever since the new policy roll out of tests, standardized curriculum and even more tests, this school's _'calculable figures'_ may have risen but the quality of actual education sure hasn't." The minister tried again to interrupt but she was too far in now to stop. "You like statistics so much – here's a nice one for you: In the last two years drop out rates have increased by 10%. That's smart, promising children giving up on learning because they don't fit some pre-conceived box by a government who knows nothing about who they are or where they're even from. You say all you have to do is look around this school to see the results – well it's obvious you and the Prime Minister haven't given the faintest glance, otherwise you'd see it's undermining the future of so many children. This isn't education: it's a checklist. An- "

"I'm sorry the Prime Minister is needed back at Number 10." A deep Scottish voice suddenly called from the mess of cameras, snapping her back to reality.

What had she done?

The press ignored the call to cease and began shouting questions at Clara like arrows, hemming her in tighter to the line teachers. She looked up to see the ministers being nudged away by a tall thin man who tried to shoo away the reporters when he turned his head and shot her a look like a shard of ice. Her breath caught under his intense gaze, but in and instant the tall grey haired man had turn and gone, leaving her alone as prey to the encroaching press.

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**NB: Why hello there! I see you've stumbled on this fic. That's nice! Have you also been pulled in head first against your will to the dark twisted void of Malcolm x Clara shipping? BECAUSE I SURE HAVE**

**Yes these two idiots who in no way should be put together have somehow taken hostage of my brain and I can't get it back. Especially now when I'm imagining the both of them dressed up like Hans Gruber and attempting really bad Alan Rickman impersonations. Yippi Ki-Get your stupid stubborn hands off my heart.**

…**. nup. Not working. Seems I'm stuck with this ship.**

**So I guess the only logical thing to do is keep writing this story then? I mean, if you like it, that is. This chapter is a bit expositiony prologue, and was tres weird not letting Malcolm say fuck – but ooo lordie is that going to change in the next chapter. We'll also get to some interesting meetings. And when I say meetings I mean butting of heads. Wonderful pretty heads. **

**So yeah – if you like it and want more or just need a scream about these two idiots please leave a review! They feed this worthless carcass of a brain and make things better and faster. But thanks again for reading! **


	2. Chapter II

**Bad Education – Chapter II**

Doe eyed. Of course she had to be fucking doe eyed. Like some fucking Bolshevist Disney Princess.

Malcolm pushed through the crowd, trying to get to the cars at the gate while cursing himself for letting the colossal rocket sized dildo of a fuck up happen under his watch. Nicola Murray was very quickly moving from a thorn in his side to a jagged rusty axe lodged in his fucking shoulder. He had to silence her now, lest she manage to single handedly derail the whole fucking campaign.

And speak of the devil; there she was – scurrying off with Ollie, trying to hop into a car before Malcolm caught them. Not fucking happening.

Malcolm lurched into a speedy waddle, ducking past the small children and stray reporters when he finally passed through the school gates and managed to grab the handle of the black car door just before it shut.

"_Oh Jesus!_" He heard a voice sigh from the car.

Malcolm wrenched open the door and shoved himself in, forcing the red faced Ollie and Nicola over along the small seat then slammed the door, locking them all in.

"You can talk, fucking Judas in a tart's dress." Malcolm spat as he leaned over Ollie to point accusingly at her. "Why the fuck are you handing opposition propaganda on a silver titted fucking platter at our own fucking press conference?"

"Well I didn't know she was going to be against the policy now did I, Malcolm?" Nicola rubbed her brow in frustration. "I mean she was standing behind us the whole bloody time I just assumed she supported us."

"_Assumed_? You _assumed_? Let you play a game of Russian roulette you'd probably _assume_ the whole chamber is full of fucking rose petals." He huffed. "You assume it makes and ass out of _you_ and _you_, because I'm not getting fucking dragged in to your little coal-covered cluster fuck: I'm the one fucking holding the match above it. And I'm getting_ really_ fucking close to dropping it."

"It's not my fault I needed a diversion." Nicola grumbled weakly.

"Are you fucking _kidding me?_" Malcolm let out a cold laugh of utter disbelief. "It's so much your _own _fucking fault, I think the fault casts such a big fucking shadow past this cock-up it covers all the other giant shits of history, so much so I'm pretty sure I can blame you for the Hindenburg and fucking Justin Beiber."

"I wasn't expecting on giving a speech to the entire British press!" She tried to defend herself. "Until yesterday this whole thing was meant to be me just saying a quick few words about a policy no-one sodding cares about, take a picture with the principle for the little local newspaper no one sodding reads, smile, smile, have a sandwich, then bugger off. Then you lot swoop in and it's a bloody James Cameron production complete with explosions provided by fucking _me_.

He just glowered at her as Ollie started to shrink in the seat between them. "You're a professional politician, right? You're getting paid? You're being paid by the coin purses of 60 million British citizens to sit on the fucking Cabinet, are you not?" Malcolm threw his hands out at her in interrogation.

Nicola's face twitched. "Y…yes." She murmured.

"Well then fucking _act _like it." He shouted back. "In fact, don't fucking act like it, because shit like you couldn't act your way out of a diarrhetic child. Fucking _be _it. Learn to fucking think on your feet rather than need over 24 hours to gather your piss-weak excuse of a consciousness enough to change one fucking line of a pre-written statement. Or have you just given up on the whole 'professional politician' thing to begin with?"

"No." She quickly responded.

"Then shove a cork up your arsehole and stop this fucking shit." He let out with a wave off his hand.

"I um…. I will." She managed to murmur in submission, slinking back in the seat.

"Well fucking good." Malcolm sighed in frustration.

"Good." Nicola echoed from the other side of the car.

"Good." Ollie's weak voice joined from the middle.

"Who the fuck asked for your opinion you fucking bad imitation of an afterbirth?" Malcolm barked with a glare that promptly sent Ollie back sinking into the seat.

The car filled with a stifling silence as it edged through the London traffic.

"Look…" Malcolm finally let out a grated sigh, his hands folded tight around his lean frame. "…on the plus side at least the lass was just shouting about education. No one gives two shakes of a piss-covered cock about education. They fucking pretend to, but they really don't." He could sense the two cautiously lowering down their guard as he begrudgingly continued to draw them back to his side. "They'll be some annoying questions but then the whole thing will fade away quicker than the Queen's fart in the breeze."

Nicola edged her head around to look at Malcolm. "You're sure?"

His eyebrows dropped to a firm line. "What the fuck did I tell you about holding back your brain vomit fucking demon child from the Exorcist – of course I'm fucking sure! Now sit the fuck back in the corner and think about what you've done."

She swiftly returned back to the seat, leaving Malcolm to turn his gaze to the outside world crawling past the tinted window.

It would fade away. She would fade away. He knew she would.

But for some unknown reason, as hard as he tried, he still couldn't get them out of his head.

Those big fucking doe eyes.

Fuck.

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Clara hitched her bag up her shoulder and strolled quickly through the hallway, hoping she could move fast enough to avoid any of the school children's off-hand comments about her unexpected outburst the day before.

"Heya Miss Hillary Clinton!" A young cocky voice shouted down the hall.

Too late.

She looked at the boy giggling with his mates and gave him a tight smile then quickly turned to escape to the teacher's room, when she almost ran into the Principle.

"Mr Turner!" She forced a smile as she cursed her luck. She'd successfully avoided him all day yesterday after the conference, knowing she would be getting quite the berating for putting their school under the critical spot light.

"Miss Oswald." He replied sharply. "Could I have a word with you in my office?"

"Of course!" She tried to reply brightly but he had already turned around and moved down the hall, leaving her to follow, the slow creep of doom rising inside her.

When they made it to his office, she slowly closed the door on them as she tried to gather the words of her apology. "I…"

"Yesterday was interesting." Mr Turner beat her to it.

"Yeah." Clara nodded weakly. "I guess it was."

He leaned on his desk and folded his arms. "Do you know they put you on YouTube? It's already gotten quite a few hits."

Her stomach sank. "Has it?"

"The press are no doubt going to try and get a hold of you." He continued.

"Yeah." She agreed gravely, waiting for his blow to come.

"Well, I just wanted to say then, whatever happens – you have our full support."

Clara whipped her eyes up at him. "I'm sorry, _what_?"

"Giving the government a good bullock. We and the teachers are behind you 100% of the way." Mr Turner replied cheerfully.

She started to get worried. Did he think she was trying to be some sort of martyr? "Listen I-"

"Any statements or protest, we'll be there for you." He interrupted.

"_Protests_?"

"Yes."

"Um…ok then." Clara shifted uncomfortably, feeling like she had just been thrown head first into a pool she only wished to dip her feet into. "That's… um… good to know sir. Thanks." The Principle smiled at her with pride as she began to back slowly away to the door. "So I've got to pop off and teach some 13 year olds how to rhyme but thank you. For your… um… support. I'll be sure to keep it in mind."

She gave a polite smile then opened the door and escaped as quickly as she could.

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Malcolm stabbed his thumb into the centre of a tangerine and tore the orange flesh in two as he loomed over the pages of polling data spread out over his cluttered desk, when the door opened and his right arse-fisting hand man strolled in.

"How go things in the land of fucking Mordor where the shadows lie?" Jamie crooned with his Scottish brogue.

"Fucking dandy." Malcolm replied shortly, looking back down at the spreadsheets of data.

"What do the new numbers look like?" He moved up to the desk.

"Like we're hanging on by the shrivelled up little foreskin of our teeth." Malcolm growled.

"Well we better watch out because I think there's a potential fucking Bris headed our way."

Malcolm shot his eyes up to him. "The fuck happened now?"

"That hot little piece of teacher arse and her crazy fucking rant got posted to YouTube, and now the hits are rising quicker than the prick of a horny pimply boy watching the feisty train wreck."

"How many hits?" He glowered.

"Over 450,000 in 8 hours. And growing." Jamie answered. "The press are no doubt scratching at her door like starved fucking zombies, so it's only a matter of time before she jumps on the popularity band wagon and starts throwing her unwanted opinions at everything like some shit hurling monkey."

"Find her dirt." Malcolm ordered.

"Right you are." Jamie gave a smile. "You want me to give her a call too? Sneak a verbal dead fucking horse's head in her bed?"

"No." He sunk down into his chair and ran a finger along his jawline in thought. "I'll talk to her."

Jamie's eyes widened in surprise. "Don't you think slaughtering civilians is a little below your pay range?"

"You want something done right you get the fucking professional in." Malcolm glared. "I'm fucking sick of letting people screw up all my fucking masterwork – I want her _silenced_, so I'll do it my fucking self."

"So not a chance to stare down her top then." Jamie quipped.

"Fuck you."

"Change the subject in that and you've got a good pick up line." Jamie gave a twisted smile.

"Get the fuck out of my office you fucking pervert." Malcolm huffed as Jamie skipped out the door with a knowing grin.

The little shit didn't know a thing. He was simply going to stamp the little fucker of a fire out, obliterate all the surrounding oxygen and let it die out before it had any further chance of spreading.

He was just going to do his fucking job.

Nothing more.

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Clara scribbled a note in the margin of the student's essay then flicked it onto the small pile of paper beside her with a tired sigh. Eight done, eighteen more to go.

The empty classroom echoed with the squeals and shouts of the children outside, running around in their lunch break, when her own stomach joined in the noise, crying out for the soup waiting for her in the staff fridge.

But she couldn't go into the staff room. The teachers were determined to spend every spare moment that day huddled around laptops, watching the view counter increase on her little ranting video like rowdy football fans. They'd cheered when she opened the door but then she quickly made up some lame excuse about forgetting her bag she was actually wearing, and escaped to her classroom to hide like some friendless kid without a lunch mate.

She had let her mouth go before her mind could stop it. Again. It was always the same. But this time people thought she was acting like a hero, like she had planned to embarrass the PM and incite some revolution.

She didn't want a revolution.

She just wanted her soup.

Clara slapped another essay in front of her and checked her phone for the time when she remembered she had turned it off since she got a call the night before from a very slimy sounding reporter. No phone and no email. Not until this mess died down. That would teach her to think before she bloody speaks.

"_As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, they kill us for their sport_." Clara jumped in her chair when the schoolyard noise was cut by a Scottish voice. A voice she recognised.

She whipped her head around to see the same thin grey haired man from the day before, the one who had given her a look that chilled her to the bone, leaning hands in pocket against her classroom door frame, his stern eyes squinting at the quote written on the white board behind her.

"Bit nihilistic for young minds, don't you think?" The man continued before she could speak as his gaze darted to her. "What ever happened to the old _carpe_ _dium_?"

"It's not part of the government curriculum." The replied coldly, finally finding her voice.

"_Touché_!" He gave a crooked smile but never took his eyes of her, keeping her in a state of unexplainable unease, when all of a sudden he pushed himself off the frame and stepped into the room. "Is it alright if I have a quick word with you?" He asked while closing the door on them anyway.

"Sure." Clara responded sceptically, watching as he walked up to her desk.

"We haven't been formally introduced, my name's Malcolm Tucker." He put out his long, wiry hand with a stretched smile.

"Clara Oswald." She shook his hand with a matched firmness. She noticed his blue-green eyes flick her up and down in quick inspection, then he turned and swaggered around to the front of the classroom.

"I used to love studying Shakespeare when I was a lad." Malcolm casually grabbed on of the children's plastic chairs and placed it before her desk. "Not that I understood one fucking line of it, mind – I was only interested in hunting down all the naughty words I could."

"Can't say boys have changed much over the years." She deadpanned while he sat down comfortably on his chair, swinging one long well suited leg over the other.

"Aye. But then again kids these days aren't exactly starved of resources. What with Google… and YouTube." He threw out the last word casually, but there was something behind his charm, some raw nerve of energy just behind the eyes, that made her cautious.

"That's why you're here then." Clara stated bluntly. "The video. So – do you mean to threaten me?"

"_Threat-_? No!" His bushy eyebrows stretched up in astonishment. "I'm here to _help_ you, Miss Oswald. Your little speech is getting quite the exposure, and the blood suckers and sadist hacks I like to call the British Press won't take long until they pick up your scent. But then again..." His gaze finally relented from hers to flick to her desk. "…considering you've turned off your mobile, I'd say they're already on the hunt."

"Of course. Because I'm the one who embarrassed the Prime Minister in front of the country, you only just to _help_." She said in mock agreement. "Do you think I'm so naïve that I would hide from the foxes in a lion's den, when there's a viral video out there of me saying _Lions are pricks_?"

"I think you're naïve about how much trouble you could get yourself in." His eyes darkened for a moment but then cleared up quickly as he edged forward in the plastic chair. "You were at _our_ press conference, answering a question put forward by _our _minister – I do feel partially responsible for the shit storm heading your way and I'd be remiss if I didn't at least offer my assistance."

"And what assistance is that?"

"How to handle the press. You've done well already turning off your phone but you can't do that forever. I can assist you in getting out of the spot-light and back to doing your actual job, uninterrupted by political junkies like me."

Clara looked him up and down. He was a rather an attractive man, now that she thought about it, in a sort of striking, hawkish way. "So what would you advise I do first?" She carefully relented.

"Let out a brief statement. Dilute the blood in the shark tank."

"A statement?" Clara instantly became wary

"Yes."

"Saying what, exactly?"

"That what you said was just a personal opinion that you never intended to express under such publicity, or have it construed as some sort of political protest."

"But it was a protest." Clara stated simply. His gaze sharpened. "It is my personal opinion that the Prime Minister's education policy is bullocks, so I said that to him. I protested to him. Isn't that how this whole democracy thing works?"

Malcolm bristled. "You may have expressed your personal opinion to him, but the problem is sweetheart, you expressed it in front of ten fucking TV cameras."

"So?"

"So not every fucking citizen has that amount of broadcast range."

"But no one has to listen to me. No one's forced to agree with my personal opinions. But people have. Quite a few people have, now that I think about I think about it. I'm not about to go back on my views just when they're starting to gain supporters."

"Well aren't you becoming a regular fucking Pol Pot." Malcolm mused darkly.

"I'm just trying to make a difference."

"You want to make a difference? You want to affect national policy? Then get fucking elected to fucking Parliament!" He suddenly shot up from the chair and loomed over her desk. "Or do you think fucking _page views_ and _retweets _are our government's future? Fucking meme based budgets and a Secretary of State for fucking grumpy cats! You can have your viral fucking video along with all the sneezing babies and fucking fat cunts with lightsabers, but leave the fucking governing to the fucking professionals, sweetheart."

"Don't call me sweetheart!" Clara stood up defiantly to match him. "And I would leave the governing to your guys if they actually did a proper job at it."

"Oh! My _sincerest_ fucking apologies Your Highness! I am sorry the entire cabinet and all the public servants haven't performed exactly to your fucking _whim_. But there are other fucking people in this country we're trying to serve too."

"Really? I thought you only meant to serve yourself. Because you're much more focused on keeping the keys to Downing St than you are about the future of the kids that sit in this classroom everyday."

"These kids of yours are far better off with us having the keys than the fucking caviar swilling, self entitled pigs of the Opposition." Malcolm spat.

"Really? Maybe I'll just have to meet them and judge myself." Clara smirked, enjoying the way his face instantly reddened.

"Do you think this is fucking amateur hour? Do you think you can actually take on this government yourself like some fucking Top Shop Mr Fucking Smith? I'm sorry to say this _sweet_-fucking-_heart_ but you're getting way out of your depth. In fact you're fucking sinking and you don't even know it yet. I had the lifesaver, I was going to throw it in, but now I'm just going to sit back with a fucking Pina Colada complete with a fucking miniature umbrella and watch you drown to the fucking bottom."

"If you're feeling threatened by one small English teacher expressing her opinion, then your party must be really fucked."

"You're not a threat. You're a pest. You're one of those fucking flies from Shakespeare, and I'm the God who will kill you for sport."

"Then I have no choice but to try and bite you."

"Not if I crush you first."

"Bring it on." She leaned in closer and stared straight into his eyes when a defiant smile rose on her lips. He studied her for a second in perplexity but then his own thin mouth twisted into a Cheshire grin.

"Your fucking funeral." They locked eyes, an unexpected chill running up Clara's spine when all of a sudden he sprang back from the desk.

"See you on the fucking battlefield, Joan of A-Levels!" He strolled to the door, leaving the chair in front of her desk. "Try not to fall on your own fucking sword before I get to deliver the final fucking slice, ok?" He said with a point of his long finger, then he swiftly opened the door and disappeared.

Clara's heart was thrumming at a million beats per second, the adrenaline searing through her veins, when she picked up her mobile and held done the button as it turned on with a melodic flourish.

So much for keeping her mouth shut.

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**NB:**

**Oh Clara clara clara clara – what on earth have you got yourself into? She is a stubborn bloody thing, but then again so is he. So basically they're both fucked from the jump.**

**But now my brain's drained from doing the whole putting words into sentences crap so this will be a short note but I just wanted to say how absolutely dumb struck I was by your reception of the first chapter. I wasn't expecting anyone to read it so it just means the world that you guys did. And for all the guests who left reviews that I couldn't reply back to – LEMME HUG YOU AND SHOWER YOU WITH COOKIES AND WONDERMENT!**

**Ok. Backing away before you can put a restraining order on me. But seriously you guys are fucking amazing and I hope this chapter can make up for it.**

**So yeah, if you like it or hate it or hate pies and need someone to vent to about it please review! I mean, I fucking love pies but I ain't going to hate on your personal preference. **


	3. Chapter III

**Bad Education – Chapter III**

He fucked up.

Malcolm scowled out the window of the taxi as it edged back to Whitehall. He was the master of darkness, the ultimate manipulating puppeteer and who could find the perfect way to pull on anyone's string and he fucking fucked up.

Something about that obstinate midget of a teacher made him drop the ball, and it frustrated the hell out of him. He should have kept his cool. He should have tried to charm her to his side but instead he accelerated straight into the fear tactic, a tactic that, admittedly, always seemed to work with him – but the fucking short skirt didn't even flinch at it.

Fuck, she even seemed to be encouraged by it.

She could have been calmed down and shut up but he fucked up.

Then again, at least a bit of old dirt flinging would cover up his mistake and set things right. He shouldn't give it another thought. It would be handled.

Malcolm tapped impatiently on the taxi door.

That little smirk she gave him, did she even have any clue about what she was getting into? Was she just like all the other clueless fucks he dedicated his life to cleaning up after? He could have sworn she seemed to have a good head on her shoulders but the way she so gleefully defied him made him question if he was just blinded by her confounding passion.

He rubbed his eyes with his hand in frustration. She was going to be old news by the end of the day - it was time to get back to all the other fuck ups on his plate.

Malcolm whipped out his phone from his jacket pocket to call Jamie, but then hovered his thumb over the keys in thought. Suddenly, before he could think of a reason to stop himself, he pulled out his little black notebook and flicked to the latest page where Sam had written down a phone number. Punching down on the pad, he held the mobile up to his ear with unexpected nervousness.

The line clicked through.

"Fuck up number one: you turned your phone on." He got in first.

"How did you get my number?" Clara's cold voice cut through the line.

"I mean, that's not counting your first fuck up – that was going all Kanye fucking West on the press - but I thought it would be nicer to just count that as Fuck Up Ground Zero and just build up from there." He continued unabated.

"Much nicer. How did you get my number?" She curtly repeated.

"I'm the fucking Wizard of Oz. I'm the guy behind the fucking curtains of this government, I only have to click my Italian leather heels three times and I can get any phone number I want."

"Whatever." She huffed impatiently. "I'm hanging up now."

"You don't want to know why I rang?"

"I presume it was to check on how I was faring with my drowning."

"You presume right."

"You're a sadist."

"And you're a masochist." He countered. "Seems we make quite the pair."

"Well I guess I am a bit of a masochist if I'm sitting here listening to the man who just fifteen minutes ago was threatening to destroy my very existence."

"Not my fucking fault your chose to go after my party in fucking public, is it?"

"Loyal, much?"

"More loyal than you, if you're going to support the fucking Eton-inbred establishment of fucking castrated fops." Malcolm spat.

"I'm loyal to my _students_." Clara fought back. "And I will do anything I can to get them a better education. So if you want to go ahead and change your stupid policy then congratulations: I'll support your party all the way!"

"How fucking gracious of you." He snarled.

"The Mail seemed to think so." Her voice teased. "In fact they've just offered me a full page spread."

"More like full page picture of you bending over the desk with your fucking tits hanging out." Malcolm grumbled. "Mail's the fucking opposite of what you want. You want to appear like the dignified teacher who actually knows what the fuck she's talking about. You want the Times or BBC. But not the fucking kale-munching fag hags from the Guardian: that'd just be preaching to the limp wristed choir."

There was a small silence over the line.

"Are you trying to help me?" She questioned, confused.

Malcolm's mind went blank. "I'm fucking just trying to make my destruction of you a bit more entertaining on my end. Give me more of a fun fight if you're not already flailing on the ground to begin with, like some fucking quadriplegic lamb with a big old fucking target painted on its back."

"How very sweet of you." She deadpanned.

"Sweeter than fucking tooth decay." He relaxed into the seat of the taxi as the corner of his lips threatened to turn upwards. "So what kind of dirt do I have to look forward to digging up then? Involved in any Young Fascist rallies? Experimented with psychotics at a fucking Eyes Wide Shut orgy?"

"I'm sorry to say you'll find my past rather boring, actually."

"Well you know how to lower a man's flag quick." He sighed. "No bother, the tabloids will eat up my little crap pancakes of insinuation for breakfast. Who needs facts when the entire industry's trying to scratch itself out of a fucking grave? Any particular smear you'd like to veto?"

"Not being a Nazi is always a good thing."

"Sex fiend it is then. Best warn your dad not to read tomorrow's paper."

"Thanks for the tip." She replied dryly.

"You know all this could be avoided if you just put out a simple fucking two sentence statement retracting your rant." He tried again.

"It also could be avoided if you change your education policy to actually help the students learn rather than meet some arbitrary number set by an out-of-touch bureaucracy." Her voice became stern again.

"That's one fucking press-ready sound bite you've practiced there."

"It is, isn't it?" He could hear her smirk over the line. "I think I might pass it on to whatever party is worthy – I'm sure the opposition will be giving me a phone call in a minute, I'll get back to you later and tell you what they think of it."

Malcolm couldn't help the twisted smile that rose on his lips. "You know, I'm almost fucking tempted to just let you go like some fucking over-inflated balloon, just to watch you deflate with fucking violent farts of utter cluelessness."

"Not going to lie, having you out of the picture would mean less potential giggling from the class."

"It's always about the fucking _students_ with you, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's almost like I'm an actual _teacher_."

Malcolm beamed in the corner of the taxi when a beep interrupted over the phone line, snapping him back to reality. Call waiting. He had to take it. But he didn't want to. Why the fuck didn't he want to? Just finish the fucking conversation and move on. He made his point and she wasn't budging. He had to hang up.

Hang up.

"Well like I said: If you don't retract, then I fucking react." His voice lowered. "A fucking shit storm heading your way from the Downing St direction, the likes of which you cannot even fucking fathom. Bring an umbrella."

We quickly switched to the next call before he could think.

"Malc!" The Prime Minister's voice appeared from the other line.

"Mr Tom Davies!" Malcolm tried to regain his head. "How was your Cabinet meeting?"

"Fucking rotten." He huffed. "Even with the boost in the polls."

"Well sir, all we need to do is fucking drag them screaming over the election line, then we can have a good old fashioned cull once we're back in office."

"You're right." He grumbled. "I know you're right. But I also know the Cabal is still here, just waiting to spring up at the slightest weakness. I mean that education girl – the teacher from yesterday – I can just tell they want to get her on their side."

"Not if I have any fucking say in it." Malcolm steeled his voice.

"Good. Good. So you're going to handle her then?"

Malcolm's mouth twitched. "She'll be a rotting political corpse in no time."

"_No time_ is not quick enough. I need her gone. We've got enough troubles as it is without her stirring up the pot. One more sign of weakness and this party will crumble."

"Consider her gone already, sir."

"Where would I be without you Malcolm?"

"In a fucking hell-scape of idiots and hypocrites too frightening to even imagine."

"No doubt you're right. See you tomorrow." He promptly hung up, leaving Malcolm alone in the taxi, still crawling through traffic.

It was sorted. He was going to destroy Clara Oswald.

He fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

_Clara Oswald_.

Impossible fucking girl.

Should he have mentioned to the PM his conversations with her? No. Why should he? Not like he needs to give a detailed account of all his fucking minutes of his day – he just needed to do his job. He needed to fix problems. Problems like Clara.

He rubbed his chin with his hand. What the fuck was that conversation anyway? He could have sworn for a moment there, just talking to her, he almost felt…_comfortable_. But that couldn't be fucking right. It must have just been that all the fucks he had given over her retracting her statement had vanished faster than fucking Jude Law's hairline.

The taxi finally pulled up outside the gate of Downing St, and Malcolm got out and walked through security to number 10 with thoughts still swirling in his head like some maddening mess.

He even fucking smiled when he was talking to her. But it must have been his smile over the potential of fresh fucking meat.

It must have been.

Before he realised he was walking in auto-drive he was already halfway down the hallway to his office when Jamie popped out from on of the doors, waving a large envelope.

"Fresh, steaming shit: ready to fling!" He handed the envelope to Malcolm with a grin.

"Jamie my dear, if you weren't fucking married I'd fucking snog you right now." He said drolly as he opened the envelope to peer inside.

"Who knows, the missus could find it a turn on." Jamie mused as he followed Malcolm into his office and watched as he pulled out a photo of Clara from the package. "Teacher Tantrum isn't all fucking justice and purity rings…" He began as Malcolm sat down at his desk, still studying the photo. "She started out as an Au-Pair and almost fucking burned the one of her family's kitchens down like a regular fucking Mary Pyro. Also there's old rumours hidden in the backlogs of Facebook that she had a thing with her history professor in university, so she definitely does know from experience the benefits of getting a fucking _hands on_ education."

Malcolm slipped her photo back in the envelope. "Put that in the fucking headline."

Jaime waited expectedly. "Want me to ship it out on the leaky boat?"

"I'm giving DoSAC a routine colonoscopy this afternoon, I'll hand it over to them to send out. Maybe it will finally teach those fucking hacks what their mothers obviously forgot to – that they've got to wipe their own fucking arses after they decide to take a massive dump on their own party. Fucked if I'm going to be their fucking bidet anymore."

"I'll stock up on fucking air fresheners for you then." Jamie quipped as he headed out the door but Malcolm just replied with a humph.

He flicked the envelope in his hand, considering it for a moment, then put it down on the pile of folders and notebooks that were his constant companion. He stared at the envelope again, considering its contents, when his thoughts wandered back to those stupid fucking giant eyes, glaring through him in defiance.

Fuck it.

He grabbed the envelope from the top of the pile then unlocked his personal draw in his desk, shoved it underneath the mess of notes hidden inside, then closed it back up and locked it with a soft click.

He was totally fucked up now.

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**NB:**

**Malcolm, sweet heart, what the fuck are you doing you fucking love struck teenager? Although thinking about it he could turn that question around to me since I'm the one who's writing him doing this. Damn. I keep forgetting how this whole 'writing' thing works. **

**But yes, hi ho there, and thank you again for reading and leaving a review it really just makes my grey rainy days of existence that much shinier! So before I fall into a coma I just want to gather you all in a giant bear hug if said bear had 12 feet long arms. Then again, proportionately it would probably be better if I said giant monkey hug. Also because I am a monkey. Hmmm. Can we pretend that last sentence never happened? Great. I mean I know there's like delete button and all but it's all the way up there in the corner and I gots stubby fingers so MONKEY HUGS FOR EVERYONE!**

**Love you guys, and hope you enjoyed the update. If not, my inbox is open for shouting. **


	4. Chapter IV

**Bad Education – Chapter IV**

The morning sun began to crack through the window, as Clara lay flat on her back in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, just as she had been doing for last three hours.

How could she sleep when there was a tempest raging in her head, a tempest she was terrified she would be swallowed up by?

She had never felt this out of control. What was she thinking, throwing her life out into the public arena? She had no idea if they would support her or turn her back on her; how they would portray her, if they would betray her – it was all out of her hands.

This was not her. She had to get a handle on this.

But on the other hand, she couldn't just let it go; not with so many children's futures at risk. Her mind flashed with the faces of bright but troubled kids, whose eyes had been dulled by the school's restrictions, and who she still felt a pang of guilt over when they gave up and dropped out. If she had even a chance of harnessing this media storm and channelling it into becoming a force for change, if had even a chance of saving one kid from thinking they weren't smart enough for a real education – then she had to keep going. She just had to figure out a way to gain control.

Clara furrowed her brow and stared harder at the ceiling. If she agreed to meet with the opposition, as they had rung up and politely asked her to do the night before, she could have some sort of bargaining power with the government. As long as she didn't appear to support the opposition fully. Clara shuddered under her covers. If _they _came into power than she would never forgive herself. Also the opposition would no doubt reverse any promise they made to her in an instant the moment they got into office. No, it was a better of two evils situation, and the only way this was going to work was if she convinced the ruling party to change their policy.

She would just have to play the two parties off each other.

Simple.

Clara groaned in frustration and ran her fingers roughly through her hair, as the gruff Scottish voice that had tormented her all night ghosted through her thoughts yet again.

_You're naïve sweetheart. You've got no fucking clue what you're up against._

He was right. She knew he was right. But that didn't stop her from wanting to smack the smirk off that angry bitter owl's face and prove him wrong.

She shifted in the bed, abruptly moving to her side and curling the blankets up to her chin with a tightening grip. She needed to stop thinking about him. She had a political chess game to figure out.

And yet as hard as she tried her thoughts swept back to his deep rumbling voice, his sharp authoritative fingers, and his frankly ridiculously bristled eyebrows.

The edge of Clara's mouth tweaked upwards involuntarily as she remembered when he shouted at her, the way his brow wriggled around his expressive face like a furious caterpillar.

He intrigued her; she wasn't going to deny it. Especially after that strange phone call, ringing her up straight after he essentially cursed her to the eighth circle of hell. She had sat in a surreal daze for a moment after he hung up, trying to fathom what had just happened. The bubbling within her chest could almost be described as giddiness – but it couldn't be. And she couldn't have felt a thrill when she teased him over the phone. And he couldn't have had a moment when he was actually trying to _help_ her, giving her that advice.

No, she was imagining things. Especially since she knew this morning's newspapers had no doubt already painted her as a complete nutter– a nice welcome present from the government's own Nurse Ratched.

Her alarm buzzed next her, jolting her back from her thoughts. No use trying to hide from it, she resolved as she propped herself up in her bed - she got herself into this mess; she would get herself out again.

With a newfound sense of steely determination, she hopped out of bed and marched through her well-practiced morning routine, when just as she was pouring her second tea in a travel mug her mobile began to ring. The first of many to come, she sighed. Creeping to kitchen table, she peered over her phone to see that she didn't recognise the number, while she waited for it to ring out. It didn't take her long the day before to figure out a system on how to handle all the calls – let them ring out, then listen to the voice mails. That way she could weed out all the crap, and have the chance to plan before she talked to anyone.

The phone was finally silenced, with one final beep indicating that a message had been left. Clara picked up her bags and closed the lid to the travel mug then finally grabbed her phone and headed out the door. With a small pause of trepidation, she clicked on to the waiting voice mail and clipped down the stairs.

"Oh, good morning Ms Oswald." She almost fell down the steps as she recognised the voice on the message. "This is Nicola Murray, the ah Secretary of State for Social Affairs and Citizenship. We met at the Coal Hill press conference – I mean, I um, I was the one who asked you that question… So I was wondering if you had a chance for us to meet up? It would be just great to sit down and listen to what you had to say and your experience… it would… it would be great. So I hope you can meet me, please give me a call on this number whenever you can. Thank you."

The message cut out, leaving Clara frozen on the stairs in utter confusion. What on earth was the minister she had publically embarrassed doing, trying to meet with her, wanting to hear her opinion? It must be some sort of trick, she thought, finally finding her legs and continuing down the stairs. Tucker must have been pulling some strings to go along with the dirt flinging. She needed to figure out was he was up to; she needed to see the papers.

Skipping out of the door, Clara headed down the street to the newsstand down the road to gain some clarification. The shop owner didn't look up as she finally reached the stand displaying all the morning's newspapers. She scanned the front pages quickly: nothing there. She picked up the Daily Mail, bracing herself for the worst, yet when she flicked through the trash filled pages; she could find no mention of her. This couldn't be right.

Clara picked up the Times instead, but there was only a piece on the growing popularity of the video and the silence of the PM. She tried the Guardian, but there was nothing besides a government advisor tweeting a hash tag she apparently inspired. The Mirror just had pictures of t-shirts festooned with the print: #educatedontregulate.

Clara smacked down the papers. This wasn't right. Malcolm Tucker had promised to destroy her.

"Hey." The shop owner snapped her back as he called out from his chair. "You're that woman from the YouTube, aren't ya?"

She flicked her eyes to him and gave a clipped smile. "Ah… yeah. I've also bought a paper here every day for the past three years"

The man seemed to ignore her as leaned back in his folding chair pompously. "Yes…the bastards needed a good kick up the bum – good on ya."

"Thanks." Clara murmured in forced politeness then quickly turned away down the street, trying to get her thoughts together. Why hadn't Malcolm Tucker unleashed the smear campaign on her? She knew the lack of any dirty laundry wouldn't heed his tenacious crusade against her, so why the silence?

There was only one way to find out. Pulling out her phone from her pocket, she scanned the call history from the day before when she finally settled upon the right call at the right time. Served him right for not blocking his number.

She tried to ignore the flutter of excitement that flushed through her chest as she held the phone up to her ear and listened to the ringing.

"If it isn't Ms Krabappel: The Early Years." Malcolm Tucker grumbled through the line. "To what do I owe the displeasure? You about to bring out your trusty discipline ruler?"

"I just saw this morning's papers."

"Oh? You mean those papery blog things they used to wrap up fucking Fish and Chips with?" He dodged smoothly. "That's a fucking rare find, sweetheart – best tweet a fucking selfie with them."

"I'm not in them. I mean I am, but there's none of the smear campaign you promised. What's going on?" She tried.

"What the fuck makes you think I'd tell _you_?" He rebuffed gruffly. "What, you expect me to go on some fucking monologue explaining all my fucking plans to you like some fucking idiotic Bond Villain?"

"I could hope."

"Well I'm afraid today isn't your lucky day."

"I dunno, it kind of seems like it is." She couldn't help herself from goading him; it was just too easy, and too strangely enjoyable.

"Don't get too cocky now." He growled over the line, in a way that was almost seductive. "You forget I've got a knife sharper than fucking Bendybut Cunterfuck's cheekbones, just waiting to castrate you."

"And yet you haven't cut me down." She felt a smile rise to her lips. "Are you becoming a little attached to me?"

"Yeah like a fucking tumour." He grumbled.

She couldn't help but grin as she leaned on a garden fence and listened to the silence between them with an unexpected sense of ease.

"You got a meeting with the opposition." He finally spoke out.

"I do."

"Well if anything's going to fucking convince you you've made a huge cock-up and release a reversal statement, it's meeting up with those fraudulent fucks."

"Whatever you say."

"_Yes._ Please _do_ do whatever I say – it would remove a fucking pain in my arse usually reserved for fucking low fat muffins and Piers Morgan."

"But where's the fun in that?" She teased. "I like this better: you make empty threats and I go happily on my way."

"My threats as empty as a fucking black hole – and you've just reached event fucking horizon." He growled.

"Then I suppose I'll have to do as much as I can before I get sucked in." She said proudly. "Nice sparring with you as always, Mr Tucker."

"Gone so soon?"

"I've got work to do."

"It's like watching fucking Tiny Tim playing round in a fucking incinerator." He sighed gruffly. "I'm going off to sharpen your own personal fucking sword of Damocles."

"I look forward to seeing it."

"Fuck off."

"And good morning to you too."

She hung up with a smile. This was good. This was very good. She had managed to gain the upper hand, and she knew exactly how to make her next play.

Rushing back to the newsstand, she grabbed a copy of the Guardian and flicked a quick coin at the attendant. She quickly flicked through the pages until she found the article she was looking for. A government advisor of a cabinet minister had tweeted in support of her video, even using the stupid trending hashtag. The division in the government had reared its ugly head once more, and she now knew how to take advantage of it.

She grinned as she took out her phone again, wondering what Malcolm would think if he saw her now, before quickly stopping herself. Why was she thinking about him? She shook her thoughts away and focused on the phone to the call she received that morning, when she brought it up to her ear and heard the line click through.

"Hello Secretary Murray? Yes, it's Clara Oswald. I'm just calling to say I'd be happy to sit down with you."

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**NB:**

**Bah bah BAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!**

**Yes Clara's trying her hand at playing some political chess, but will she fail? Who knows! Well… I do but that would be telling, wouldn't it? I'll just have to reveal the secret in incremental chapters. Almost like writing a story…**

**Anyway I'll shut up. Again let me say a huge fucking THANK YOUO to everyone who reads and reviews I can't say enough how amazing you guys are, even if I wrote it one 100,000 little pieces of paper and scattered them from a plane above you all. Because you're amazing.**

**So if you like or hate or are indifferent to this story, please leave a review because reviews are the oil to my rusted up old dirty machine of a brain. Thanks!**


	5. Chapter V

**Bad Education – Chapter V**

"He didn't shake the fucking baby." Malcolm paced in his office, hand in his hair as he gripped his phone tight to his ear. "He just had a bit of a fucking jig, you know? Not like whatever the fuck you're making it out to be; like he used the kid as a fucking meat covered fucking Kinder Surprise, trying to listen to what's inside like some geriatric Hannibal Lector. You've got less journalistic integrity than fucking Nixon's mummified left ball sack. And if you think I'll be coming back to you with exclusives anymore then you better fucking take that old stick from out your arse, shove it straight up your nose and fucking swizzle it round like_ you're_ shaking a fucking baby, and give yourself a fucking prefrontal lobotomy cause you're fucking delusional." Malcolm waited impatiently as the journalist finally surrendered. "_Thank you_." He gritted in forced pleasantness. "See, that wasn't so fucking hard was it? I mean, off the record: the crusty old cunt hasn't been near children since he learnt how not to shit in his pants. But then again he's fucking degenerating back to that stage so maybe it's time to surround himself with fucking bairns again."

The door to his office suddenly opened, causing him to whip his gaze around but then give a small groan of annoyance when he saw it was Julius Nicholson, balancing the world's fucking daintiest tea cup and saucer in his hand, complete with a fucking biscuit.

"Well I'd love to stay and chat…" Malcolm continued to the phone as he tracked Julius like a hawk as he entered the room and sat himself presumptuously on a chair. "…but a fucking six foot baby just lumbered into my office, and _on_ the record: this one deserves a good fucking shake." He quickly hung up his mobile and moved to his own chair, glaring at his new visitor. "I was just questioning the gods if they could make my day any fucking worse, and here you appear; like my own fucking crane delivered sack of biscuit dotted shit, right on my fucking door step."

"Well Malcolm." Julius began with a sickeningly soft voice. "I would apologise profusely for staining your Welcome Mat, but I suspect you are not the type to own one, _mmh_?"

Malcolm sat down with a quizzical brow. "Did you just try to make a joke?"

"Despite what you may believe, I am not completely insusceptible to the funnies." He took a delicate sip of his tea.

"Nor am _I_ completely insusceptible to punching you in the face."

"Now, now, Malcolm: no need to get violent." Julius tsked calmly.

"I'm so sorry." He put his hands up in exaggerated apology. "It's just, something about the curvature of your under-developed head reminds me of this fucking advisor who keeps leaving fucking biscuit crumbs everywhere like Hansel and Gollum, and won't let me do my fucking job in peace…_oh wait!_" Malcolm pointed at him, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, very funny." Julius carefully rested his teacup on his lap. "Or at least it would be if I didn't have an extremely important purpose to fulfil."

"Well fuck me, please do tell – it's always been fucking beyond me as to what purpose you have." Malcolm leaned forward in feigned interest.

"I have just spoken to the Prime Minister." He started, sitting up in the seat. "And may I say, he is quite concerned about the way you're handling certain things."

Malcolm tensed up. "What, like the way I'm handling my cock?"

"Do you mind if we spare the crudeness for just one mome-"

"I know all of the PM's concerns." Malcolm glared.

"Really?" Julian just raised a dainty eyebrow.

"Of course I fucking do." He waved off. "We're tighter than fucking Mother Teresa's twat. He rings me more than a teenage girl in heat."

"Interesting…" Julius picked up his teacup to rest on Malcolm's desk then stole away the biscuit. "He didn't mention any of that to me when we just chatted."

"That's because we talk about _you_ behind your back." Malcolm shrugged. "Don't want you finding out and drowning your sorrows by fucking diving into a whole shipping crate of Jaffa Cakes and Hobnobs– you've got a big enough fucking lard to skin ratio as it is."

"No, see, I don't believe you're telling the complete truth now Malcolm." Julius said patronisingly. "Tom had quite the grumpy face when I saw him."

"Fucking _Tom_?" Malcolm snorted in disbelief. "When did you two get so close, did you just strap on knee pads and open wide?"

"I am going to ignore that last comment by answering your initial question, and that is: we have become close because he has come to the opinion that I am very good at my job. His opinion of you, however, has been quite diminished, since he has failed to see any action on the smear campaign against Miss Clara Oswald."  
>Malcolm instantly felt his stomach tighten by the mention of the young woman who would not leave his mind, no matter how hard he tried. "The fuck you mean?" He stilled, glaring at him from over his desk.<p>

"Tom said that you assuredhim that she would be _'taken care of'_, as they say."

"That's cause she will."

"Well he's not too chuffed with your progress."

"I'm sorry, do you want to fucking take charge of the spin department now? Fucking resign and spend your life dealing with the fucking soulless press like fucking Seven Years in Twat-bet? How dare you come in here and tell me how to do my fucking job. Stay in your lane Wacky Wanker Racer."

Julius just sat up in the chair, unfazed. "I may be sneaking a small tippy toe over your line here, but this is becoming a much larger issue. An advisor of one of the members of the Cabal had tweeted in support for this pontificating pedagogue. We both know the faction has been biding their time, waiting for a moment of weakness to strike – they may think this viral sensation is their chance."

"They're three fuckers with inferiority complexes, we're the party with 53% approval – they're not going to scuttle their own fucking boat while it's still floating."

"Not if this education thing builds more of a following. If we go down in the polls they just increase their raison d'etre. We could be up excrement creek before we realised they've already stolen the paddle and escaped to dry land without us."

"No one's joining the fucking Cabal under my watch." Malcolm asserted.

"Well you're making it easier by not cutting the source of the rot to begin with, aren't you?" Julius countered smugly.

"So being a fucking castrated manatee makes you the authority on _cutting_?" He shot back, unamused. "You should know then to take your tumourus toes back over that line now otherwise I'll hack them off with my rustiest fucking choice of axe in fucking phalangic carnage." He stood up from his chair and placed two firm hands on his desk to tower over Julius, who remained unfazed. "_I _am the Spin Master. I know _exactly _what I'm doing here. But your swollen fucking head cannot fathom strategy if Napoleon hit it with a fucking chessboard, so let me give you little personal guided tour into the mind of a Machiavellian master, just to calm your fucking fat tits a little: The closer Miss Clara Oswald gets to the opposition, the more the public views their support for her – the more damage we cause when we take her down. She's like our own personal fucking suicide bomber – the deeper she moves in, the bloodier it gets."

Malcolm stared at Julius intensely, studying his face in desperate hope that his excuse be believed. But luckily he was too good at lying, as always.

Julius slowly put down his tea and touched his hands together with a thoughtful nod. "You still haven't answered my question about the Cabal recruiting members though, _hmm_?"

"I'll take a fucking A-Bomb to that pathetic game of Whack-A-Mole and fucking eviscerate the entire land if one of those fuckers decides to peek its traitorous head up. That a good enough answer for you?" Malcolm glared.

Julius just gave a self-satisfied smile. "That's all I needed to hear."

"Well then this whole back and forth build up to that has then been a complete fucking waste of time - which, now I think about it, it's a waste every single time you decide to curse me with your presence."

Julius stood up and primly smoothed down his jacket. "Me and the Prime Minister will wait for your strategic ruination with bated breath."

Malcolm's mouth twisted into a forced smile. "Now you're tempting me to draw it out longer just to see you asphyxiate."

"A pleasure as always, Malcolm." Julius nodded then turned to trot out the door.

"Well it's certainly a pleasure to have you leave." Malcolm glowered after him until he closed the door, leaving him alone in his office.

Malcolm collapsed into his chair in a huff and ran his bony fingers through his short greying curls and down his face. All this for one fucking girl in a fucking skirt with her stupid fucking stubbornness. He never felt this frustrated. He hated it. He had to get rid of her.

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Clara strolled confidently through the DoSAC offices after asking for the directions to the Secretary of State's office. She could feel pairs of eyes look up from their computers in startled recognition as she walked past, causing a smug little smile to play on her lips. Everything was going exactly to plan.

Taking one last fortifying breath, she made her way up to the desk outside the Secretary's private office and gave a charming smile to the plump woman sitting on the other side.

"Good morning, my name's Clara Oswald – I have an appointment with Nicola Murray."

"No." The woman's head shot up from her screen. "No, sorry, I'm actually not the receptionist."

"Oh." Clara faltered. She leaned forward in her chair conspiratorially. "Have they been telling you I'm the receptionist?"

"No."

"I bet they have." The woman ignored her as Clara watched her quizzically. "The people here have absolutely _no_ respect for the Civil Service. You put in your hours, you do your job, and where does that get you, hm?"

"Nowhere?" She attempted.

"Exactly." The woman asserted.

"Terri, you old sentient sponge-cake!" A lanky young man with a tuft of dark brown hair appeared by the desk, waving a document. "Could you send this statement off to the press if it doesn't interfere with your plus size knickers knitting party planning?"

The woman now known as Terri whipped the paper from the man's hand begrudgingly. "You could have just said please."

"Could've said a lot of things." The man shrugged, then finally looked up to acknowledge Clara. "She wasn't bothering you abou-oh my god." His eyes suddenly widened in realisation. "You're the teacher, the one from the school with the YouTube video."

She put on a curt smile. "That's me."

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I-"

"Miss Oswald!" Nicola Murray jutted in as she arrived, huffing, through the office, her eyes wide in thinly veiled panic. "I meant to meet you downstairs." She glanced a look at the thin man, whose shocked face instantly darkened.

"Oh." Clara smiled, knowing exactly what complication her 'mistake' had caused. "Sorry about that."

"No matter." Nicola waved a hand in forced nonchalance. "Would you, um, like to step in my office?"

"Of course." Clara turned and walked to the private office when she overheard a burst of angry whispers behind her.

"_What the fuck is little red ranting hood doing here?"_

"_I don't have to answer that_."

"_When you place my balls on the line with you here, yes you kind of do." _

"_We're just having a chat, that's all."_

"_You do know that phrase about keeping enemies close is complete bullocks."_

"_I know what I'm doing."_

"_Wait- you're joining the Cabal."_

"_I am not."_

"_Yes you… oh we're fucked."_

"_No we're not."_

"_You've got the subtlety of a fucking dubstep foghorn. Everyone's going to know now."_

"_It's just a chat."_

"_Last words-"_

"My apologies." Nicola spoke up as she slammed the door shut on her advisor, leaving her alone with Clara in the private office. "Just um… some boring logistical problems. Thank you for coming. Please, sit down."

Clara gave a polite smile and moved to the chair. "Thank you for inviting me."

Nicola darted a nervous glance out of the glass wall as she walked to her desk. "I was just hoping to get your opinion on the government's policies without a pack of press members leering around us like starved diabetics."

"Yes." She put on an innocent shrug. "Sorry about that."

"Don't be. Actually a thought what you said really, really rang true to me and ah, what I aim to achieve in office."

"Well, if you agree with what I said, does that also mean you'd be willing to bring about a change in the Prime Minister's thinking then?" Clara tried.

Nicola seemed to be knocked off balance a little. "Well… um… see that's a little-"

But before she could go on, the door opened, revealing the same young advisor from before, this time with a deathly pale face. "Nicola can I… just a moment." The advisor's voice trembled.

Clara remained in her chair as she watched Nicola scurry from her desk to lean her ear close to the young man's whispers, when her face fell in matching terror.

"_Shit._" Nicola whispered under her breath, as she turned her head away from Clara in an attempt to hide her reaction. "_Shiting shit_." She then swung back to Clara with a strained smile, her hands clasped together tight. "Would you like a coffee? There's a great coffee place outside. Let's get coffee."

"Um…ok." Clara agreed in surprise, then slowly rose from her chair as she watched the two curiously.

"Good! Great! Off we pop!" Nicola hurried her along as she walked between them and out the door.

"That way!" The advisor redirected them both away from the main pathway through the office, causing them to turn abruptly. Clara tried to keep up with Nicola's ever-increasing pace as they scampered down the hallway, her eyes wide in bemusement. Suddenly Nicola froze in her spot, causing Clara to bump in to her, not that Nicola even noticed, as she was already turning around and waving her hands in panic.

"_Back!_" She whispered forcefully at her advisor. "_Back back back!_"

And so they scurried back from where they came from, the Secretary and the advisor's heads darting round like paranoid chickens while Clara was forced along between them in utter confusion.

"_I warned you!_" The advisor shot out in a hush from in front.

"_Oh shut it Nostradamdick!_" Nicola huffed behind her when the advisor stopped them in their tracks just as they passed the lift.

"Fuck. Quick. The lift." The young man herded them to the metal doors.

"No way!" Nicola protested loudly. "Not happening."

The advisor groaned in frustration. "You have a fucking death wish?"

"No! _That_'s why I want to take the stairs."

"Oh just get the hell in there!" He pushed them through the opening then twisted his hand through to the inside controls, hammering down the close door button, while Nicola stilled beside Clara, gripping on to the railing till her hand turned white. The metal doors finally began to close and the advisor whipped his hand out from the lift and disappeared.

With a dull thud and a soft ding, they were alone in the lift. Nicola let out a small breath.

"Ok." She whispered to herself. "Ok. Sorry ab—"

But there was another ding.

Clara could sense Nicola sinking beside her as the metal doors began to crawl open, revealing the tall dark figure that seemed so familiar to her now, clutching on to the lanky advisor's shoulder and glaring darkly at Nicola.

"Secretary Strumpe—" Malcolm Tucker began, when all of a sudden his gaze caught on Clara and his eyebrows immediately shot up in surprise. "_You._" She felt a shiver down her spine as his eyes burrowed through her, while his hand fell from the advisor's shoulder, putting all of his focus on her unexpected appearance. But then something clicked behind his eyes, and he instantly turned to Nicola with an accusing finger. "_You_! The _fuck_ you doing with her?" The veins popped out from his neck as swung his finger to Clara. "The fuck you doing with _her_? The fuck is happening here?"

"I…" Nicola managed to stutter. "Can… can we just step out of the lift?"

Malcolm's eyes widened in disbelief. "You're fucking staying where the fuck you are until you tell me the fucking story morning flaccid glory! What the fuck are you fucking doing here?"

Nicola's face flashed white. "I just thought we should have a chat." She tried weakly.

"A fucking _chat_?" Malcolm spat. "What is this, fucking _Tea With Mussolini? _You thought you'd actually fucking get a away with this fucking Judy Wench?"

"I…I…" The minister stammered, as Malcolm continued to glower at her, but then his eyes flicked back to Clara for a brief moment.

"Right. Fucked if I'm going to try and deal with a pile of stuttering shit." He turned back to Nicola. "Fuck off back to your office, collect your fucking words and then fucking whittle yourself a quick fucking coffin while you wait, cause I'm going to give you the fucking evisceration of a lifetime!"

Nicola remained frozen.

"M_ove,_ Yoko Fuck-no!" He shouted, causing her to jump slightly before she scurried out of the lift. Clara took a step towards the door when she was met by Malcolm's stern finger.

"Not you. We need to chat." He said coldly as the doors closed in on them and he pressed the emergency stop button, leaving them locked in the metal box together.

Silence fell between them as he avoided her gaze and she watched his long, worn figure shuffle from corner to corner of the small enclosed space, his brow furrowed deep, his sharp nose flaring. She knew she was in trouble, but she couldn't help but almost feel glad to see him again, to be able to study his strange, perplexing features, to poke at him, just to see how he'd react. She was in trouble, but she was loving it.

"What are you doing?" She broke the silence, eyes still following him.

"I'm pacing." He grumbled.

"Doesn't look like pacing."

"Well don't you just have an opinion on everything!" He finally looked up. "Why don't you go write a fucking book called _1001 Opinions You Never Fucking Wanted and That Fuck Everything Up_ then fucking throw it out of a fucking B-52 over London so it can fucking fall on people's heads like a fucking unwanted opinion?"

"Not your best analogy." Clara judged.

"What the fuck did I _just_ say?"

She calmly studied his strained face. "Are you cross with me?"

"_No!_ Whyever would I be cross with _you_, you who've made my last few days more frustrating than fucking…fucking _US politics_!"

"Then why haven't you just launched your smear campaign and gotten rid of me?"

Malcolm stilled for a second, his mouth twisting with unsaid words, until he straightened and up an accusing finger. "Don't fucking try and turn this around on me, sweetheart. Not my fault you're a fucking idiot."

Clara stiffened. "I know what I'm doing."

"Yeah like a fucking drunk badger performing brain surgery." He huffed than turned to her, eyes searching. "Do you have any conception of how fucked you are? Do you know how many vampiric vultures there are out there fucking baying for your blood on a fucking plate?"

"I do. Do _you_ know how delicately your own party bound together? One small tap in the right place and it could all fall to dust."

"You're _really_ not in the right place to be making fucking threats here sweetheart. This party goes down, it'll turning into a fucking rabid dog without a leash, and it'll rip the throat out of _anyone_ who slighted them. Just fucking save yourself while you can, and put out a reversal statement."

"No."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because I know I can win." She shrugged in simple admission.

"No you fucking can't." Malcolm glowered, taking a step towards her.

"Well I'm set in my way now, so your welcome to throw dirt at me whenever." She defied.

"Maybe I will." His voice darkened as his eyes became sharp. "Maybe I'll start off with the professor, your little bowtie boyfriend." Clara instantly tightened in panic, but Malcolm continued, edging in closer to her personal space. "Did you seduce him? Crush his little tweed heart when he found out you were only using him for good marks?"

Clara stewed as the pain of the past hit her chest like an icy hammer. "Don't you dare." She warned coldly.

"Oh I fucking _do_ dare." Malcolm's brow popped up in challenge. "And I will dare even fucking further. So stop this fucking power trip and put out a reversal statement."

She tried to stamp out the roar of thoughts telling her to give up, but then she inched closer to him, lifting her chin to stare straight into his piecing eyes.

"No."

"Put out the statement."

"Change your policy."

"I'll destroy you."

"I know you won't."

"You don't know me."

"And you underestimate me."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you."

The inches between them thrummed with a tense electricity, when all of a sudden she saw Malcolm's eyes dart down to her lips. Blood throbbed through her ears. His hot breath ghosted over her skin. Before she could think, their lips relented and closed the gap between them, meeting in a hard, heated kiss. Clara's hands instinctively snaked their way up his chest and grabbed tightly at the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, to which he responded in kind, sprawling a large palm over the small of her back. Clara's mind was blank. There was nothing but the intoxicating feel of him, the taste, the smell, the warmth. His tongue lightly skimmed over the seal of her lips and she started to ease them open in acceptance when-

"Hello, building security here: Is there a problem?" A tinny voice invaded the left, crashing them back to reality as their eyes shot open, freezing as their arms were still wrapped around the other.

Shit.

_Shit._

What had just happened?

"Hello?" The disembodied voice continued, as they took a leapt away from each other and backed off wearily to the opposite walls of the lift. "The emergency stop has been left on for two minutes, is everything ok?"

"Fine." The both croaked in unison, eyes still linked as they tried to search their way out of the heady mist of confusion.

The security guard continued talking and the lift groaned back into action, but it was all white noise to the sound of their breaths as they stared at the other.

"That was…" Malcolm started, eyes open in surprise.

"Unexpected."

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**NB: haha yes it certainly was! Hullo there! Kronos here, yes it's been a while since the last update what with drinking and people and occasions and even more drinking, but hopefully you guys haven't forgotten this fic, and hopefully I've made up for the absence with a nice little kiss.**

**Cause who doesn't like the kissing? Stupid people, that's who! (apologies to stupid people, but you're missing out)**

**Anywhos – yes the above did indeed happen, but what happens after rushing into a kiss? They've still got a whole lot of shit to figure out, and they're both equally screwed. So yay! Down to destruction together!**

**But before I run away I just wanted to say once again, because I can never say it enough – thanks so so so so much x 10000 for reading, and even more for dropping a review! You guys never cease to amazing, and I just hope to write something that will meet your glorious standards! So lemme give you a monkey kiss. Or just a high 5 if you ain't into that sort of thing. **

**So if you like, hate, are mildly interested or are just stuck in the computer and don't know how to escape, please leave a review and tell me what you think! Because reviews are the sugar coated candy rush to my limp five year old of a brain. Thanks!**


	6. Chapter VI

**Bad Education – Chapter VI**

Malcolm stared at Clara from the opposite wall of the lift, taking in the way her small chest rose and fell with her breath, the rose coloured flush of her round cheeks, the deep pools of her eyes, wide with surprise – every single detail he could absorb to prove to himself that he wasn't dreaming, that this was real, that he did actually kiss that small, passionate, infuriating woman – and, more importantly, that she kissed him back.

She kissed him back.

Why would she kiss him back?

"That was…" The words tumbled from his mouth then quickly dried up as he still struggled to comprehend what just happened.

"Unexpected." Her sweet voice finished for him.

"But…" He couldn't stop himself from continuing. "…good."

A small smile tweaked the corner of her soft lips. "Too good." She almost whispered in agreement, causing his shrivelled heart to skip.

Malcolm unwittingly began to mirror her smile, when the now hated lift bell rang out once more, and the metal doors began to open, wrenching them back into the real world.

Malcolm shot up from the wall, his face instantly switching back to the cold, commandeering mask. Two government workers peered in, waiting for the lift. He had to get out. From the corner of his sight he could see Clara freezing in awkwardness. Now. He had to get out now. With a soft, courteous cough, Clara took a stiff step forward and out of the lift, and before he knew it he was following along, keeping a safe, unsuspicious distance between them as he moved alongside her, walking down the office corridor in an excruciatingly uncomfortable silence.

His eyes kept flicking down to Clara in observant hesitation, the only crack in his professional façade. She was avoiding his gaze, understandably so, but he couldn't help but look at her anyway – that perplexing nose and her tormenting lips: he couldn't just leave it like this. The outside world seemed to weigh down on him with an unbearable pressure. He couldn't stand it, being this close to her, knowing how it felt to be near her – and then being denied that electric proximity by a herd of clueless government fucks who had nothing better to do but stare at him blankly and chew on fucking copy paper. Frustration turned to anger as he glared at the faces around the office, but then he darted back down to Clara.

Still avoiding. Still stunned.

But he needed more.

Without a second though, he reached through the awkward space between them, wrapped his hand around her small arm, pulled her away from the intruding eyes of the office and into the closest room he could find.

For a brief moment, he gave thanks in relief that he had lucked out on an empty staff pantry, and that Clara had followed his lead for once, but these thoughts were instantly replaced by the insatiable desire for her lips; as he swiftly turned around, pushed her against the pantry door, and dove down to claim them with his own.

His heart leapt as her surprise quickly disappeared as she opened her mouth to him with a soft moan and gripped her hands around his back, challenging him to push her tighter to the door.

_Always a fucking challenge_, he smiled in his kiss. But he was already loosing too fast, drowning in the addictive enigma of her strength and softness. He needed to sort his thoughts out quick. And air. He needed air.

Reluctantly, he spread his two hands against the pantry door and pushed himself away from Clara's lips, just slightly, so that his forehead hovered an inch above hers, as they sought to catch their breaths together.

"We should… stop." Malcolm forced out with a rough voice, and attempted to push further away from her when two small hands shot up and buried themselves into his short curls.

"Definitely." Clara purred in a far too seductive voice and pulled him down into another kiss. It was her turn now to push, edging him closer to the shelves of the pantry while he took the opportunity to ease he hands down along the curves of her body, until all of a sudden she pulled his head away from hers.

"No…" She murmured hoarsely, her hands slowly sliding down his neck to his shoulders – whether they were there to keep them apart or to keep her steady, he couldn't say. "No… you're right." She continued, almost to herself, as she cautiously lifted her hands off his shoulders and took the furthest step away from him as she could in the small space of the pantry. "Time out." She finally managed to catch her breath. "We just need… a time out."

Malcolm's body was flush with heat as he tried to calm his heart rate down, watching Clara in the dim light while she leaned against a stack of office grade instant coffee, her lips puffed and swollen, her fitted blouse untucked from her skirt. She was stunning. She was dangerous.

"You kissed me." She broke the tense silence, her eyes seeking his for acknowledgment.

"You kissed me back." He replied, still not believing the words, when he couldn't help but give a small smirk. "Three times."

"Don't get too cocky."

Malcolm raised a suggestive eyebrow.

"Shut up." She glared playfully, then looked away to collect her thoughts, though not before he noticed her eyes flicker briefly down his body.

"So…" Clara tried casually. "Is this a habit of yours then? Snogging unsuspecting civilians next to the PJ Tips?"

He could have laughed at the absurdity of it, were it not beginning to truly dawn on him just how magisterial the royal fuck up of a problem he was facing, because no – that was most definitely _not_ something he would usually do.

"Far from it." He replied simply, darkly, causing a flash of panic to run through Clara's face.

"Ok! So that means then that you…" She gestured to him with over-exaggerated hands to cover up her nerves. "You… like…me?"

"I do." He found himself answering before he even considered the implications, when all of a sudden, something small and vulnerable inside him, long since considered lost and broken, swelled back into his chest. "Do you like me?"

"Well… I mean… you're not without your certain… appeals." She blushed slightly.

"Oh?"

"Nice taste in suits, for instance. That and your boggly eyes."

"You can talk."

"Oi! They're Disney eyes!" She squeaked in defence.

"Right, cause _'Cartoonish'_ is the benchmark you want to pursue in life."

"So says Judge Frollo."

"I'm sorry, are we doing the awkward banter thing right now?"

"Seems so." She gave a wan smile. "But I guess it's either that or bury ourselves deeper into a hole; so I'm happy to stick with banal bantering a little while longer. Unless, of course, you've changed your mind?" She offered up hopefully.

"About your eyes? Sorry sweetheart, they still look like you've been thrown out of the airlock on mars."

Clara instantly glared. "I meant the education policy."

Malcolm's eyebrows shot up. "What, so one kiss from you would make me reverse my opinions on government policy like George Orwell's Snow White? You're a good kiss – a _really _good kiss – but even you aren't that good."

"Don't need a kiss to realise if you just change the policy, you could fix a broken system, give hope back to thousands of children, take the wind out of the government faction, and consolidate your lead in the polls – all in one fell sweep!"

"Since when did you turn into a tiny Thomas Cromwell?" He eyed her wearily, trying desperately not to be turned on by her enthusiasm for political machinations.

"Since I found a good teacher. " She gave a small, flirtatious smile, causing him to clamp down on his distracting thoughts. The little minx, she knew exactly what she was doing. But he wasn't going to let her win so easily.

"Well, you're obviously not the brightest student, otherwise you'd have learnt lesson number one: Don't run into the fire."

Clara just shrugged. "I don't have a choice."

"Yes you do!" Malcolm felt surprisingly irritated at her acceptance of her fate. "You can put it out, sneak around it, call the fire brigade, sit beside it on a lawn chair and roast marshmallows on it – not fucking _sprint_ into it carrying dry wood and tanks of oil like you seem determined to do."

"So why haven't you stopped me?"

"What do you think I've been trying to do this whole time? I've been trying to warn you, I've been _protecting_ you – but you keep on insisting on flying in like a fucking kamikaze!"

"I don't need your protection." Clara bristled.

"Excuse me Little Miss Moppet, _yes you fucking do_."

"Like some naïve little girl?"

"Pretty fucking much, _yeah_."

"Fine. You want to protect me? You want to stop me running into the fire?" She stepped towards him in a challenge. "Change your policy."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because the entire Government doesn't answer to one little English teacher!"

"Or maybe it just doesn't answer to _you_!"

A clean hit.

Silence cut between them as Malcolm's stomach dropped.

That's what she thought of him. A mere puppet.

But who was he to argue?

He felt exposed, vulnerable, helpless against those big eyes as they bored through him, straight through his well-maintained façade. He could strike back. He could turn it back on her and cover himself up against him arrogance and lies but he knew it would be hopeless from the start. She would know the truth.

His eyes flicked down away from hers in defeat.

"I…" Her soft voice filled the pantry, when he saw her feet step away.

Malcolm gave a heavy sigh as he looked up to her again. "This isn't going to work, is it?" He forced the words from his lips.

Her eyes swelled up in sadness. "I don't think so…" She let out softly, as if the realisation was only just forming in her mind.

"Fuck. Fine." He tried to compose himself. "I'm done. No more phone calls or meetings, I'm staying away, you're on your own, do whatever you want."

"Good." She said weakly. "That would be better, right?"

"Right."

"Right."

They stood in silence for a moment, taking each other in, when finally Clara turned to the pantry door, and was about to open it up when she quickly looked back. "It was nice to meet you Malcolm…Despite everything." She gave a small melancholic smile.

"You too." He murmured, then before he could say anything else, she was gone.

Good. She was out of his life. It _was _better this way.

Malcolm sunk down onto a box of disposable cups as the darkness of the pantry sunk down on his shoulders.

It was better this way.

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**NB: **

**Wowzers! That took a surprisingly dark turn! No seriously I'm surprised! I didn't intend for it to go that far but then my fingers did the thing and these bloody characters where so obstinate then suddenly this! What the fuck fingers?**

**But not to fear – this little hiccup won't last too long. These two are volatile, but they'll keep finding their way back together like fucking magnets (how do they work?)**

**So anyway apologise for the shortness of the chapter but I wanted to get something out sooner rather than later – and also it means I won't have to cut the next chapter very cruelly short. Because if I cut the next chapter short even I could would grab my own pitchfork and ram my own door with it.**

**But for now, once again I want to give you all the world's biggest hug for reading and leaving reviews! I am a small sad monkey who lives in a basement, armed only with a typewriter and fake banana sweets your reviews shine light on this dark dank hole of my brain. Seriously though my main motivation is to give you guys the chapters you deserve. I'm not there yet, but there's still more story to go so stick with it!**

**Now, back to the basement of me brain!**


	7. Chapter VII

**Bad Education – Chapter VII**

Pairs of bulging eyes stared at him like brain dead meerkats as he stepped out of the small pantry of the DoSAC office, but with one quick look up from Malcolm, they scattered away as quick as they could. He gave a heavy sigh as he trudged forward to his next place of slaughter. He knew he shouldn't take his frustration out on the underlings and assistants – they were only just trying to mop up the mess made by their incompetent bosses.

And it wasn't like he was any different.

Clara's words cut through him again as he continued through the office with a snarl. Some over confident bag of Blackpool candyfloss he'd only met a few days ago – what the hell did she know about him?

Nothing.

Everything.

But now she was gone.

Good riddance.

And yet he couldn't help but think he felt just a little bit…emptier. Like she had managed to find the only real piece of him left in his stretched out carcass of a human suit; and she had grabbed it with her small little hands and wrenched it away before he even knew there was anything left to steal.

But that was that and she was gone.

Her kiss, her eyes, her insufferable knowing smile: they were gone.

It was better that way.

He had spent too much time dancing round her like an idiotic fucking stroke victim on stilts – it was time to move on and do has actual job.

Malcolm drew in a breath and pushed in through the glass door, to Nicola Murray's private office.

"I had nothing to do with it!" Ollie Reeder's panicked voice squawked before Malcolm even had a chance to properly step into the room.

"What?" Nicola shot out as she cowered close to the desk, waiting nervously for the attack, while the shit squeezer Ollie moved up to Malcolm to plead for his head, and Glenn, the stale sandwich, was standing in the corner of the office, arms resolutely crossed.

He was fucking sick of them.

Sick of their comedy of errors. Sick of fixing everything they broke.

"I'm here against my will!" Ollie cut in with a whine.

"Oh shut it, Oliver Tit!" Glenn grumbled from the corner. "You helped her escape! If anyone shouldn't be here it's me."

"Thanks guys, I really appreciate your loyalty!" Nicola glared at them.

"Oh yeah and you're one to talk, joining the Cabal quicker than Russel Crowe to a pub fight!" Ollie struck back.

"I'm not in the Cabal!" She denied weakly.

"Oh come off it Nicola, you're a worse liar than bloody Donald Trump's toupee." Glenn huffed.

"It was merely a fact finding meeting - " Nicola attempted to defend.

"Just a quick innocent skip over enemy lines?" Glenn mocked.

" – and one I needn't have done if _someone_ hadn't given the Manic Poxie Dream Girl clearance to stand behind me during the bloody press conference." She turned around to give Glenn a biting glare.

"How was I to know she was going to turn into a miniature Mao Tse-Tung?" His voice cracked.

"_Questions_ seem to be all the rage with people with actual mental capacity."

"Well you'd know, bloody question enthusiast, as it was _you _going all AWOL Piers Morgan that got us into this mess to begin with!" Glenn huffed.

"All right, Bert and Hernia – it was both your faults!" Ollie jumped in. "So now that's agreed, may I please bugger off?"

"You're staying right here, Tesco Brutus – you're still part of my team." Nicola rebutted.

Malcolm's brow dropped lower and lower as he watched the three of incessantly argue back and forth like a trio of headless chickens fighting over who gets the chop. All sound and fury, signifying nothing. And normally he'd be in there, the god of noise himself.

Why wasn't he in there?

Why did he feel so tired?

Glenn and Ollie were now toe-to-toe when Malcolm had finally had got to the end of his rope.

"Shut the fuck up." His droll voice cut through the room instantly, causing the others to freeze in fear for what would come next. "I don't give two a single fuck about you shits. But you…." He turned his icy glare to Nicola, who was already wilting back into her desk. "You work for the PM. So fucking act like it. Otherwise you're fucked."

Then without wanting to stay a second longer with them, he turned and marched out of the office, leaving the three of them gawping like idiots in his wake.

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The hallways of Number 10 bustled with the nervous activity of the campaign, but the crowds parted for Malcolm as he waddled through with a stony face to Jamie's department.

He needed to focus his mind, get it back to normal, back to the sharp knifepoint it usually was, and away from this murky apathy that was beginning to seep through him like a confusing virus. Hopefully a little bare-knuckle bitching with his Glaswegian pit-bull would help set him straight, and drown out the maddening doubt inside him.

Punching open the door to the office, he glanced around the desk of Jamie's headquarters, but couldn't find him anywhere.

"You." He barked at the closest assistant, who froze in his seat. "Where's Jamie?"

"I ah…" For some reason the staffer looked nervous, even more than he would be with the Demon Bullocker of Downing St glaring down at him. "I don't know…"

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. Something wasn't right. "Ok, you'd be a better liar if your face didn't suddenly decide to audition for the fucking Blue Man Group. I'll give you another chance – are you curious as to how far I could pull your eyeballs out from your sockets, or do you want to tell me where the fuck Jamie is?"

"The cabinet room." He squeaked out, and Malcolm gave him a quick twisted smile then turned back around to the corridor and towards the cabinet room.

"No!" Malcolm was nearing the meeting room door when he heard the staffer's voice again, calling weakly behind him. "You can't go in!"

He stopped in his tracks and slowly turned to the approaching staffer with a look of incredulity. "I'm sorry?" He bared his teeth, ready to strike.

"It's just a ah… private meeting." The young man looked like death. "No-one is allowed in."

"Lucky for you, I'm not no-one." Malcolm growled then continued on to the cabinet room, going so far as to put his hand on the door when the staffer tried to stop him again.

"Please! I was given strict orders!"

"Right, that's it Porky Fucking Pig – you stop me one more time and I'll flay your pasty skin with safety scissors, season it with your fucking tears, and serve it up with a fucking side salad of fucking mandolin sliced wisps of your pin prick of a penis."

The staffer looked as though he was about to faint when the door suddenly opened, revealing Jamie, who peeked out of the small crack.

"What…" Jamie started when he carefully slid out of the door then closed it quickly, not allowing Malcolm a glimpse into the cabinet room behind him.

"I'm sorry, I tried to stop him!" The assistant quickly cut in, trying to plead with Jamie.

"Oh fuck off back to work you useless fuck!" Jamie ordered, and the staffer swiftly obliged, when Jamie quickly grabbed Malcolm's arm and pulled him to a doorway on the opposite side of the hall.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Jamie berated him under his breath.

"The fuck you mean?" Malcolm shook off his grip.

"They're all in there saying you joined the fucking Backbench Boys."

"What?" Malcolm could feel the heat of anger begin to rise up inside him.

"Don't act like you're fucking surprised!" Jamie spat. "The spineless fucking staffers at DoSAC were all a fucking-flutter about your little private talks with Hanoi Jane and the Fuckers Three. What where you even thinking?"

"That I was putting out fires without having to worry about being accused of fucking starting them myself!" Malcolm shot back angrily. "Who's in the room?"

"Tom and Julius."

"And?"

"Don't make this fucking harder on yourself than it already is mate, you know you've been off your game this week."

"Oh my…? Fuck you. I'm not of my game - I play in a whole fucking higher league. I'm fucking Ronaldo having to deal with fucking sugar fuelled toddlers who've fucking torn off their nappies and shitting all over the field! Who else is in there?"

"Malc…" Jamie warned through gritted teeth. "Let me fucking deal with this."

"I don't need anyone to fight my own battles, fuck you very much. Especially none so fucking ridiculous as this! I'm going to talk to Tom." Malcolm tried to forge past Jamie, but he stuck an arm out in his path, stopping him. "Don't even fucking _attempt_…" He glared at Jamie's arm in indignation, when Julius Nicholson appeared from the cabinet room door.

"Excuse me, Malcolm." Julius interrupted with an infuriatingly patronising voice. "Do you mind taking this somewhere else?"

"Oh! My deepest apologies!" Malcolm feigned remorse. "I'll just take this in there, shall I?" He pointed to the cabinet room door, causing Jamie to roll his eyes.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Malcolm." Julius replied in controlled coldness.

"You can't tell me what to do, fucking bargain-basement Hal 9000!" He growled.

"It seems I can, now that your loyalty is being put into question." Julius said gravely as Malcolm just short-circuited.

_His loyalty?_

_His..._

Anger and disbelief clogged up inside him with a fiery pressure as he strained to get any words out.

"My loyalty?" His face began to redden as he processed the accusation. "The fucking pound-an-hour, fucking fair-weather slut of Whitehall is fucking questioning _my_ loyalty?" His brow shot up, not noticing that a crowd was beginning to cautiously gather in the hallway, watching the scene unfold.

"You failed to tarnish Miss Oswald's character, then you are seen colluding with her, and the minister that is rumoured to have joined the Cabal." Julius' voice began to rise. "How could we not begin to question where your allegiance stands, hmm?"

"How bout it's fucking _me _you're talking to?" Malcolm barked. "The fucker who's sacrificed his fucking primary organs for this party for 20 years? The fucker who sold his soul to keep this party alive, and who's trying to fucking keep it together by the tips of his fucking shredded and bloody fingers, even though colossal fucking clumps of cancer seem determined to knock it down! You're fucking questioning _my_ loyalty like _you_ weren't the last PM's fucking primary ball licker!"

"And you weren't his primary bulldog?" Julius said condescendingly.

"Fuck off!" Malcolm recoiled. "I'm going to talk to Tom." He tried again to move to the door, but Julius blocked his away.

"He's already talking to someone."

"Get out of my way before I fucking dunk you in a cup of tea and bite your fucking fat head off." Malcolm growled.

"Malc, just fucking stop – " Jamie cut in from behind.

"I'm going in." Malcolm continued to try and push past Julius, but he remained standing his ground.

"I'd rather prefer you didn't."

"Who's Tom talking to?"

"Just fucking-"

"Please step away."

"Don't - "

"_Who the fuck is he talking to?"_

"Steve Fleming."

Malcolm felt as if he'd been punched in the gut.

"_Fucking… _fucking bum rapist Barney?" He blew up. "Fucking Steve I-Cut-My-Smile-With-A-Fucking-Switch-Blade Fleming? What the fuck is Tom doing talking to fucking him for?" He asked, dreading the answer.

"He thinks, in order to cover his wicket until the election, it would be a good idea to bring Steve in to assist you." Julius explained calmly.

"You're fucking joking…"

"Now look, we're trying to give you the benefit of the doubt here Malcolm – it's your own fault you've found yourself in this awkward position." He tried to calm him down.

"This isn't my fault. This is fucking far away from being my fault! This is the fucking distance between your scalp and a fucking thick mane of hair from being my fault! And if you think I need fucking _Dobby_ to assist me in destroying the Cabal, then you must have forgotten who the fuck you're talking to!" He stepped right up to Julius' face, glaring down at him and revelling in the small hint of fear behind his pudgy eyes. "I'm Malcolm Fucking Tucker. I am the prince of darkness. I brought this party to power under my black fucking wings of hell – so don't you fucking _dare_ question me, or thinking I need a fucking limp dick of an assistant. I told you I was going to obliterate the Cabal, so that's what I'm going to do. So why don't _you_ go fucking prance back to Tom and his little diarrhetic chihuahua and tell they'll be showering in the ashes of their fucking foes quicker than you can turn on me again, you fucking opportunistic piece of taint fluff!" Malcolm burrowed his eyes into Julius, then without another word, swiftly turned around and stared down Jamie, who was still standing behind him, and who gave a tired sigh then stepped out of his way. He glared at the audience of staffers, now frozen in the hallway before pushing past them and marching back to his office, nostrils flaring.

Fucking loyalty.

Fuck them.

He was going to destroy that little cult of hacks. He was going to fucking string them up from the London Eye with their own fucking intestines and steer the party to an easy fucking victory – that would show the fucking Oxbridge dough ball who was fucking loyal.

"Sam!" He called out as he balled into his office. "Get me Geoffrey! Then Angela Heaney. Or -fuck- whoever answers first!"

He grabbed his bag from the floor and dropped it on the top of his desk, as his ears began to throb with the sound of pumping blood. He would show them. Two long, worn hands delved into his bag and scoured the corners of the pockets. It was Operation fucking Scorched-Earth time. His hand finally brushed against something small and cold. He snapped his fingers around the key pulled it out when the phone began to beep. One hand on the phone, he nestled the receiver in the crook of his neck while he bent down to the side of his desk and brought the key to his personal draw.

"Geoff, you old Guardian angel!" He forced out a cheery voice while he turned the key in the lock and opened his draw. "What? Can't anyone be nice to you? Were your daddy's expectations a little too high?" Malcolm searched through the stack of papers till he found the file he was looking for. "Ok, so maybe I do have an ulterior motive, but that's how it works, isn't it? I scratch your back, you scratch mine, and we both supress dark doubts over our sexuality." He dropped the file in front of him and opened it up. "Spare your whining, I got a good catch for you today…"

Malcolm's voice faded off when his heart froze.

Clara's eyes stared up at him from the small picture stapled on to the single page of background information. It was obviously taken off Facebook, outside in some nondescript park, and the person she had her arm around was unceremoniously cut out of the photo, but her gaze had lost none of its potency.

_Or maybe the government just doesn't listen to you_.

A shiver ran down Malcolm's back as he promptly closed the file and pushed himself away from the desk, eying the manila folder cautiously. Geoffrey's voice called over the phone line, but it seemed like only background noise as Malcolm's thoughts began to rage with memories and doubts once more.

She was right.

She was right and he couldn't face it.

He had recoiled when she practically called him a powerless puppet, but here he was, calling up the editor of a major newspaper, chomping at the bit just waiting to show off how quickly he could perform the Prime Minister's wishes.

And for what?

Geoffrey spoke out again to Malcolm's silence, but he slipped the phone receiver from ear, slowly stretched to the desk, and hung up.

_Or maybe the government just doesn't listen to you_.

Malcolm leaned back in his chair and took in his office with fresh eyes, the empty cans of energy drink scattered everywhere, the piles of documents on his desk, a spare suit hanging from the back of door for all-nighters. His eyes flicked to the paintings his nephew had made for him, that he had hung up on the wall. But even that was a lie, a professional tactic used to confuse and unsettle.

It was empty.

It was all empty.

And it could have all disappeared in an instant because some idiot DoSAC staffer started a rumour.

The ground felt like it was shifting below him as his hands rubbed past his eyes then cradled his face. He needed to get out. He needed to sort his thoughts out. He needed…

He needed something real.

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**NB**:

**Oh hiya guys! Righto: apologies for two things first – one, the lateness. But, you know, life and things (*shakes fist at general existence*) and two, lack of Clara. Which I actually wasn't intending in this chapter, but it just seemed to get away with itself, and have no fear because next chapter will be Clara-tastic! In fact it will be Fuckwald-tastic! **

**Once again, thank you thank you thank you to everyone reading and reviewing, it really means the sun and the stars and the world and the multi-universe to me, so I hope to make it up to you in the next chapter! Which reminds me, how much are you guys sticklers for ratings? I mean I know I probably already use a few too many Fucks for the 'T' rating, but will I be pressing it a bit too far if I add a bit of ye-olde-hanky-panky? * ****monkey shrug *******

**Anywhos, thanks again so much for reading, hope you enjoy, and hope to get the new chapter out soon so please tell me what you think! **


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